


Sherlollipops - L'Amour à Paris

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [78]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Relationship, PWP, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:17:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Undercover on a case, posing as wealthy newlyweds, Molly and Sherlock explore the luxurious flat they're 'borrowing'. A different sort of exploration begins when they reach the master bedroom, much to Molly's delight!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - L'Amour à Paris

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the photo on this tumblr post: http://mollymatterrs.tumblr.com/post/119521671459/livingpursuit-parisian-apartment-by-veronika

Molly’s jaw dropped as they entered the flat Sherlock had somehow acquired for the case in Paris. She felt as if she were a blot on its pristine whiteness just standing in the doorway in her grungy, travel-worn clothes, even if said clothes were a chic step (well, multiple steps) above her normal comfortable, baggy attire.

A nudge on her shoulder sent her forward, a single, stumbling step, just enough for Sherlock to ease in behind her and shut the door. “Hmm, not bad,” he pronounced as he set their matching luggage down on the cool tile floor of the enormous entryway. “Let’s check out the rest of it, shall we?”

He took her hand, which Molly still wasn’t used to; still, it made sense to keep up the pretense of romance even when in private, to make it seem more natural when they did it in public. They were pretending to be a wealthy British couple on honeymoon, with more money than sense, in order to lure out a far-too-successful con artist known only as “le pêcheur” for the way he managed to reel in his prey hook, line and sinker.

She gamely waded through the thick white carpet in Sherlock’s wake only after insisting that they both remove their shoes. It felt heavenly against her aching feet, but as they explored the rest of the flat, her tiredness and crankiness melted away, and her eyes grew wider and wider at each newly-revealed delight.

The kitchen was ultra-modern, all chrone and white tile, as was the bathroom; both rooms held items she had no idea the use of, but was eager to explore. Her eagerness faded, however, as soon as they reached the master bedroom. The room the two of them would be expected to share; if there were any signs that the newlyweds were sleeping in separate chambers, they’d already agreed, it would send their prey scampering off in alarm. And of course the Harpers, wealthy, spoiled trust-fund children, would have servants to attend to their every need even while on honeymoon. A housekeeper would start in the morning, as would a cook, a butler and a personal maid for Molly, to pin her hair into elaborate coiffures and help her into the expensive clothing Mycroft had been badgered into providing. It was at his behest they had taken on this assignment, after Sherlock had properly dealt with the Moriarty impersonator.  


“It’s gorgeous,” Molly murmured as she gazed at the low bed with its lush white bedding, sat in the middle of the room on an equally lush white shag carpet. Too gorgeous, was her despairing thought; sharing her bed with Sherlock in her comfy, homey but far from luxurious flat in London was one thing; sharing this bed with him, while pretending to be his wife, would stretch the limits of her self-control. What if she forgot and began to treat his false embraces as something real, something that would last beyond the case?

“Stop it.” Sherlock’s words, normally delivered in cross tones to indicate that his companion (whoever it happened to be) was thinking too loudly, was instead a low vibration breathed against her ear as his hands cupped her shoulders. She turned to face him in confusion, to find his face as close to hers as it had sounded. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, but before she could protest the necessity of keeping up such intimacies - far beyond simple hand-holding - in the privacy of their temporary bedroom, he said, “Honestly, Molly, do you think I agreed to this case out of boredom or because Mycroft asked me so nicely? Do you think I picked you at random as my fake wife?”

“Then why...” she started to ask, but his lips descended to hers as he turned her in his arms so that he was fully embracing her. This time the kiss was far from tender; his mouth crushed against hers even as his arms tightened around her, pulling her snug against his lean form. She opened her mouth beneath his when his tongue slid against her lips, and she gasped as she felt the shape of his arousal pressing hard and hot against her hip.

Oh. OH. No need for further questions, your honour, the defense rests. She finally allowed herself to hold him, the way he was holding her, the way she’d longed to hold him for so many years, even when in the arms of other men. Her fingers tangled in the dark curls that were as soft and sleek as she’d always imagined them to be; her breasts were crushed up against the solid, yet slightly yielding planes of his chest, those straining buttons digging into her flesh with exquisite sharpness.

The embrace ended, as all embraces must, but only so that they could discard their clothing, leaving it to fall where it would as they in turn fell onto the downy white duvet covering the mattress. A soft covering over a firm support, much like the feel of Sherlock’s cock beneath her hand, although not nearly so hot as the turgid flesh. She longed to taste him, and her body swiftly followed where her mind wandered; she took him in, delighting in the taste and feel of him, reveling in the sound of his ragged breaths, the way his fingers clenched and unclenched in the mounds of white fabric that lay beneath them. Soon those long, clever fingers found another way to occupy themselves, as he pulled her up and pressed her back, reversing their positions and lowering his head between her legs.

It was Molly’s turn to breathe in deep, ragged breaths as pleasure coursed over her supine form; Molly’s turn to let out soft groans, to dig her fingers into - not the duvet, no, but Sherlock’s glorious dark curls, tugging him closer, closer, closer still. He moved willingly where she led him, his mouth hot on her sex, his tongue, oh wicked! The man knew what to do with his tongue, his fingers, his entire body, no virgin he as she’d once speculated. Oh no, Sherlock Holmes was clearly expert at giving a woman pleasure; those long, violinist’s fingers soon delved deep within her, curling up and pressing against a spot she’d known existed, but none of her other lovers had ever come close to locating. The shriek his movements tore from her mouth was quickly cut off by her hand clamping itself over her lips, but his own hand on her wrist, tugging it down, reminded her that there was no need to hide her enjoyment. Soon she was crying out his name, her orgasm washing over her like the crashing of the highest of high tides, a tsunami that left her limp and wrung out as he crawled up to lay his head on her breast.  


He rested there only for as long as it took her to get her harsh, panting breaths under control; her heart was still thundering in her chest as she rolled him onto his back, willingly ceding control to her as she raised herself up and lowered her well-slicked sex onto the head of his cock. He nodded when she tilted her head and asked without asking; his acceptance answered the unasked questions of safety, of comfort, of willingness. Her movements were an answer to his unanswered questions as well: no worries about disease or pregnancy, no need for anything between flesh and flesh, nothing but the sheer mindless pleasure of his cock deep within her sex as she rocked above him.

She leaned down to kiss him, uncaring of the taste of herself on his lips, his tongue, moaning as he reached up to cover her breasts with his hands. He palmed her nipples, then slid his fingers down to pinch them into taut, hardened nubs, an exquisite ache that shot sparks of desire straight to her groin. His moans increased in volume as her urgent movements sped them both to the shared destination they both sought; she gave a small scream as she achieved her second orgasm only moments after he shouted and bucked up against her, his hands now on her hips, holding tightly to her as he spent himself inside her.

As they collapsed onto the bed together, her head resting on his chest, listening to the rapid tattoo of his heart, his fingers stroking her hair, her cheek, the parts of her that he could most easily reach, she sighed, then spoke. “I love you, you impossible man. You didn’t need to bring me to such a gorgeous place to show me how you felt, you know.”

He kissed her forehead and smiled down at her, his blue-green eyes shining with warmth and affection. “Oh, Molly, a woman as special as you deserves the nothing but the best.” His grin turned wry as he added, “Which is why it continually amazes and confounds me that you want me. But, as you once told me, if I need you, I can have you - and I will always, always need you, Molly Hooper.” He kissed her, slow and tender, before whispering, “My Molly. My love.”


End file.
